Army
by nowherenew
Summary: Mello is a staff sergeant in the US Army. He is serving in Afghanistan, trying to take down the Taliban. He's happy with detaching himself from others to stay on track. But when a bomb technician joins his squad, will he be able to keep that up?
1. Marines!

**A/N: Hello, dears! I started a Misdummer Night's Dream drabble, but it's taking forever and looking more stupid with each sentence (That's actually published now, haha. It's the new chapter in Egging on the Moonshine. I still think it's silly though). So now I bring you an AU, MelloMatt story that's powered by Breaking Benjamin's new album Dear Agony. It's a war story, so there will be blood, some mentions of rape, traumatic situations, character death, etc—but fear not, dearies! There will be sex. Duh.**

**I don't know much about the Afghan war (or any war... or how the Army works...), so forgive any technical or political mistakes. Also, in this story, the narrator and basically all of the characters will be racist against those that they are fighting. These are not my views or opinions. **

**I don't own Death Note.**

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War is not a glorious thing. Even if you do survive, you might get a pat on the back, a little medal if you did something extra special, something like that. It's not glamorous. It's not fun. Those veterans who say they made their closest friends in the army were the lucky ones. Those friends you make in the army? They die. They kill and bomb and ruin, and they usually die doing just that. It's best to just keep to yourself in the army.

I would know.

I'm Mihael Keehl; I go by Mello though. I'm a staff sergeant in the United States Army. I don't really know why I joined. I guess I figured it would get me in good with whoever if I got high up in the ranks. I've been here for a year. Here in Iraq, it's not as hard for me as it is for others. I've got a good eye and some serious paranoia, so I keep myself prepared for anything.

I'm not here to protect the United States. Hell, I'm Slovenian. I got to America through some adoption program, but that's a story for another day. I'm here to either get shot or get a scholarship for college when I get back. I'm a poor kid; I need the free admittance.

I'm a sinner. I've killed, both from distances and all up close and personal. I've sniped bombers from blocks away, but I've also held a handgun to a woman's head and blew her brains out before turning to her kids and doing the same to them. It's my job, and Mello never fails at anything.

I keep myself detached. All that matters to me is that my squad is working together sufficiently, nobody gets hurt, and to make sure I don't die. I don't talk to the other staff sergeants, the sergeants, or even my own squad in a personal way. I'm an official man. My commanding officer and lieutenants are the only ones I ever talk to, really. We're all here to work. This desert called Afghanistan is our workplace. The tents are our cubicles, and we have the rival company from hell.

I don't even know how I'm going to get out of here in time to go to college at a young age. But whatever. For now, all I can think about is what I have to think about. Get up, eat pig shit, grab gun, do drills, shoot some Arabs, infiltrate a building, go back to base, eat more pig shit, go to bed. That's my day, every day, every month. I can't afford to be distracted by anything or anyone from what I have to do as a soldier.

But then, that stupid little fuck came along. I don't know why the fuck my CO decided that we needed some bomb technician and computer specialist, but that fucking redheaded bitch was so damn annoying. It would have been fine if my CO had made all the nerds stay at the base, but NO. They had to be with the sergeant or staff sergeant in charge of a squad at all times when in the field. They even slept in our tents.

That kid, with his ugly-ass goggles and stick-figure body. Him, with the fucking annoying geek-speak. Fucking _him_, carrying around all this portable technology and never shutting up about how fucking great I was. He followed me around like there was no fucking tomorrow. Of course, he was supposed to, but whatever. Even at night, when my men were supposed to be getting rest, his fucking laptop would make those noises ALL NIGHT. And even more than that, he had some family or whatever back home, and he would _never _fucking leave the communications tent if we had a free day. When he wasn't contacting his fucking grandmother, he'd be playing some damn video game. Who the fuck brings video games to Afghanistan? This is a war, not fucking college life.

Immediately I knew that he was going to piss me off. I never really knew in what way he'd manage. But I knew, in my deepest thoughts, that he would drive me insane. This "Matt" kid.... he would be the end of me.

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**Hello again, loves! This is a prologue. Yes, more MxM. I'm really excited about this story. I've got lots of muse for it—at least, right now I do—and I expect it should be around 10 or so chapters. Maybe.**

**I WANT AN RP BUDDY. You must be able to write SMUT. Because I'm a horny bitch. My favorite RP buddy of all time, also one of my very close friends, Josephine Falnor, is amazing and wonderful, and also my eternal lover Blissful Lissy is super duper fantastic, but I've got some severe ADHD and need to be occupied all the time. If you're interested, PM me!**

**Review this story. Because I fucking SAID SO, MAGGOTS! Hahaha. Just channeling my inner bitch Lieutenant. Hearts and hugs, kittens and pugs. Have a lovely weekend, and be sure to VOTE ON MY DANG POLL. Or maybe you shouldn't... is this my next story? Oh, who knows. Vote anyway. 8D**

**-Christie**

**P.S. Has anyone else played the Demo for DNd: Infection? IT'S AMAZING. Even though it's super short. I am so looking forward to Akane's new MelloNear game! Looking at the screenshots in the Demo folder, I think it's set when Mello and Near are older. Anyway, enough of my rambling.**

**REVIEW :3**


	2. This Damn Sandbox

**A/N: I have recently been playing a lot of Call of Duty: World at War, so this chapter might be a bit combat-centric. Then again, I may forget to go back and finish this Author's Note after I finish the chapter. Right now (about 12:45, Monday May 31), I honestly don't know where I'm going to take this story. But whatever. Let's let this baby roll.**

**I wrote two paragraphs of this before totally losing my drive. It's June 6 now. Epic fail. Military slang and terms are at the bottom. **

**ALSO. I realize that I made a few mistakes in the last chapter—I forgot to put in "Afghanistan" instead of "Iraq" when I decided to make it current. I will fix that. I'm trying to get a sense of the war right now, but there's so little information on the war itself—i.e. reason for the war in Afghanistan, what we want there, the like. In addition, I am now aware that Afghanistan does indeed have more than just bare desert for the expanse of its country, but I'm trying to have this make sense so I'll look for some desert cities and stuff. **

**Don't complain about the OCs. There aren't enough people in Death Note for me to make a realistic platoon, squad, anything. And strangely enough, I listened to "Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof for a good ¼ of this chapter. Weird.**

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I'm not afraid of death. I don't really have much to live for, anyway. I face death every day. If anything, I risk it more than these good-for-nothing privates I got stuck with. They're wet-behind-the-ears and stupid as stupid can be, but I'm the one they look to for orders. I'm always at the front, the first target those damn snipers see. I'm a talented sniper myself, so usually I break off from the squad with two other sergeants and leave my men in charge of the one guy I'd trust with them: Corporal Gevanni. The guy's older than me, but he just got a promotion. He's still two ranks below me, but I trust him to keep the squad safe.

Of course, just because I don't have much to live for doesn't mean I want to die. Hell, I love life. It's a sweet ride. You never know what's coming next.

I definitely didn't when my CO, Anthony Rester, called me and several other sergeants in to talk to us. Our squads and fireteams were being assigned a new member each. They were bomb technicians, hackers, and/or computer genii. Some of the others were apprehensive and combative about the decision, but I didn't really care. We were dismissed after that, and told that our respective freaks would be waiting at our tents. Hey, I wasn't going to whine about it, but that didn't mean I would think of these techies as normal Marines. They were the lab rats.

I returned to my squad's tent and lifted the flap, ducking my head to enter my cramped, fabric-walled domain. I scowled as I saw the unclaimed top bunk in the tent had been made cradle to a duffel bag. Incidentally, that top bunk was the one over my bed—the bed I had picked solely because I wouldn't have to share. Flipping my hair, I walked over to my bunk bed that I now shared and grunted, taking my desert camouflage hat off and throwing it onto my bed. I raised my feet, standing semi-tiptoe as I peered over the railing of the top bed. No techie. I looked around the tent, a single hand resting on my hip. He wasn't here, that was for sure.

I walked over to the washbasin, pouring some water into the bowl from the canteen. I splashed some water onto my face, wiping it off with my hand before rubbing my hands together in the shallow puddle, ridding my fingers of the Afghan desert's grime and grit. I drained the water from the basin back into the container and returned to my bed, sitting down with my legs apart slightly. My elbows rested on my knees and I glared at the entrance to the tent. I was well aware that the techie who had stolen my sleeping setup's isolation would most likely not enter the tent within the next two minutes, but I glared anyway.

Grunting, I decided to spend my time doing something a little more productive than waiting around for some nerd who probably wouldn't be here for a while anyway. I stood up, kneeling down and retrieving my military boots from under my bed. I tugged my M16 rifle from its perch—hanging by the strap off the metal of the top bunk's side railing—and set it on my bed. I stood facing my bed, my foot up on the edge of the metal framework. After tying up my boots, I grabbed my helmet, my M16, my bulletproof vest and my M110 sniper rifle and trotted outside to the practice range.

Luckily for me, my squad was doing some drills, but I wasn't interested. I spotted Gevanni lying down in the sniper area of the range, the one with targets meters behind the other ones. Instead of dummies and drawn targets, though, the sniper's area has small objects to shoot. I walked over to the dark-haired man and proned beside him, joining him. I grunted a greeting and set up my bipod, looking through my rifle's telescope.

Gevanni began to salute, but I grumbled, "Just speak freely, Corporal. I'm cranky, let's not push it today."

He simply nodded. We both shot some objects before he set his rifle down and took a short breath. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, Gevanni on my case about something I almost certainly wouldn't want to hear from him. Despite my evident lack of enthusiasm, I knew it was rude to ignore him, so I bark shortly after taking out four more objects, "Permission granted, Corporal."

He was quiet for a moment. I suppose he was deciding how to say whatever it was he was going to say. Finally, I just sat up and tossed my hair irritably. "What is it, Corporal?"

Gevanni's eyes widened and he stiffened before saying quickly, "I hear we've a new addition to the squad?"

"Hardly." I scoffed. "Some bomb technician. Probably never handled a gun before in his life. Fuckin' shit brick, I tell you. He'll just be a fucking hassle." I returned to my gun, shooting a few more targets.

Gevanni said quietly, "He could save our lives, though, right?"

"We've gotten on fine without him so far," I snapped, venom in my tone. I turned to glare at Gevanni. "If you talk about it anymore, I'll give you full custody and responsibility of him, Corporal. So shut your suck and get drilling." Cocking my rifle, I loaded one last bullet before taking out a twentieth target. The shell popped up and onto the sand, and I frowned while I packed up my rifle. "I'm sick and tired of this damn sandbox," I spat, glancing vehemently at the expanses of tan grains. "Corporal, dinner is in an hour. I suggest you finish up here."

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**I wanted to introduce Matt in this chapter, but I have plans for that in chapter three. So sorry!**

**Marines terminology:**

**Sandbox: Desert area (usually referring to Iraq)**

**Shit brick: Useless or stupid/ignorant person**

**Shut your suck: Shut your mouth**

**Prone: To lie on one's stomach**

**If you have any information about what the Marines are doing in Afghanistan right now, could you contact me? It's really hard to get information.**


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